


Lay It Out

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F, One Shot, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2019-01-03 23:55:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12157410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: You can wear the crowns without being the victor.





	Lay It Out

The approachable end of a shift marks the start of a new era. A meek and modest deputy enters the room. Within the confines of her uniform, she shifts. Twists her shoulders. Looks to the door as though it will devour her. Looks to the Governor since she may do the same.

“Settle down, Vera. I won't bite. Have some trust.”

Joan Ferguson shuffles papers; the legal ramifications are lost upon the audience. What is done now resides in a neat, orderly stack. Four pencils lay in a uniform row, little toy soldiers ready to deploy some monumental strategy, but it's the end of the day. The invisible plan can wait.

Miss Bennett scurries closer, her movement akin to a mouse peeking out of its hidey hole for a morsel. In response, the great cat of prosperity musters a half-smirk. The Governor stands tall, her shadow dragging across the expansive desk. She refastens the last button on her tailored blazer. Swiftly, she disappears into the other room.

“Relax,” Joan calls out, her sonorous voice carries on. It's a lullaby that promises lucid dreaming. “Do have a seat; you know I look forward to our debriefs.”

Vodka's on the menu tonight, as it always is.

Vera relaxes. Maybe it's exhaustion, maybe it's nerves. When you idolize someone so much, it hurts to be near them. She walks on eggshells, teeters on fine ice to be near someone (something) _holy_.

The wallflower wilts on top of that rickety chair. Give it time; she'll bloom. Fragile, knobby knees unite. They're the kind that have collected bruises from childhood – some from Mum, some not.

Joan, ever the calm one, returns with drinks. Two vodka tonics with an equal pour at first. Nothing diabolical to it.

The throne's pulled around so she sits beside Vera rather than sides against her. They talk about nothing. Nothing becomes something.

Small factions of their lives come slipping out from the fine cracks of their uniformed facade. Idle chatter about the job delves into deeper conversation.

Flushed from the alcohol, Vera shrugs off her jacket. She loosens her tie. This time, she takes down the French twist. She does these things on her own accord. One by one, the bobby pins slide out. Tension fades. Her scalp screams with relief.

“Penny for your thoughts on legal euthanization?”

Bemused by the turn out, Joan raises a brow. Her elbow rests on her upper thigh, palm cradling her cheek. Such a pose reimagines _The Thinker_. The moral debate comes unexpectedly, quicker than a viper's strike.

Frozen in the spotlights, the fawn trembles. Tonight, her eyes border on the cusp of electric blue. Joan watches. Observes. Weighs the scene. The scales. The heart.

Slim fingers toy with the condensation that collects along the glass. Is this the second, the third? Who knows, who cares.

They're comfortable in one another's presence.

“That's a loaded question, Joan.”

God, how wonderful it feels to drop the formalities. How saccharine, how divine!

She thinks of Mum; she dwells on the nurse that gets overtime for each hour Vera stays at Wentworth. Guiltily, she swallows the lump in her throat. Downs the rest of her drink.

“It depends on the patient's suffering, I think. They don't deserve to be in pain.”

Gone is the stutter; there's confidence – and is that _anger_ that Joan detects?

“Mm.”

Ferguson could argue with her. Some people **deserve** to suffer – Rita Bennett included. She sips her vodka tonic. Loosens her tie. Lets down the iron curtain. Such a radical debate will live to see another day.

“You're blessed with a bleeding heart, Vera. Be careful who you share it with. Prison can easily tear it apart.”

Her deputy absorbs this. Takes it in. The glass is half-full rather than half-empty; optimism exists on borrowed time these days.

From the heat of consumption, Vera shrugs off her blazer. She hangs it from the back of her chair. Her chest heaves with the deliberate course of breath. In and out, in and out.

Joan's dark eyes study her: glittering and unreadable as always.

She breaks the ice.

“I've a request,” Vera interrupts the silence.

There's a crescent moon smile – a deadly flash of teeth on the Governor's part. She tilts her head. Goads her.

“Oh?”

Slight hesitation follows.

“May I--” A pause. “May I wear your blazer?”

She lays it out.

Thumb and forefinger frame the Devil's jawline. She could analyze this moment for hours. Instead, she'll allow Vera this aware. She can have her cake and eat it too.

“'Kay.”

It defies the prose that commonly flows from her thin, glossy lips. Taken aback, Vera blinks. She faults her insecurities and masks them with liquor. Miss Bennett recoils. Shakes her head.

One by one, Joan unfastens the buttons. She stands and shrugs off her blazer, clad in tie and blouse. This is her offering to Vera: a trust exercise that speaks to the depths of their relationship.

Joan holds it open.

Gradually, slides her arms into the sleeves. Starchy wool threatens to scratch her. She tries on barbed wire. The Deputy doesn't even bother buttoning it up. Vera assumes she looks pathetic. Joan's expression says otherwise.

She _drowns_ in it.

You can wear the crowns without being the victor.

Maybe it's the vodka, but it gives her the courage to spin around. To shrug her shoulders and put the hand-stitched crowns on display.

She doesn't catch the wolf – lioness (your animal analogies all work so long as she's the predator) – licking her lips.

“That's a good look for you.”

The rumble of Joan's voice lures her in. Thunder doesn't scare, doesn't detour, but entrances.

Ferguson sits down again, her legs slightly parted. Like a trance, Vera moves towards her.

“Is it?”


End file.
